


Don't Stand In My Blind Spot

by Croik



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Croik/pseuds/Croik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a job, Eames loses himself in his forgery, and when the effects persist Arthur's there to capitalize.  Warnings for graphic violence and sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Stand In My Blind Spot

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Слепая зона](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5040019) by [PrettyPenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyPenny/pseuds/PrettyPenny)



"Explain to me," Arthur said, "how you intend to forge someone you've never met."

Eames took a slow sip of his brandy.  "One drink isn't enough to make this magician spoil his secrets," he replied.

Arthur frowned at him across the table.  He was everything Eames had expected given his reputation: shrewd, professional, and relentlessly detail oriented, in addition to being a horrible bore.  "I'm not trying to steal anything from you," he said, as if he were reasoning with a small child.  "I just want to know how it works so I know what to expect in there.  This is _my_ job, after all."

Eames cast a discreet glance around the hotel bar.  There were still two hours before closing and the happy chatter of the nearly full room helped cover their conversation from any wandering ears.  "Have you ever forged before?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"No.  I've attempted it, without favorable results."  He shrugged stiffly to show just how little that bothered him.  "I guess I don't have the necessary control."

Eames smirked against the lip of his glass.  "It's because you think that way that you can't," he said smartly.

Arthur continued to glare at him, and because it seemed like he wasn't going to let it go without a fight, Eames relented.  "You know that feeling when you meet someone in a dream you don't know, but you know who it's _supposed_ to be?"

"I don't dream naturally anymore," Arthur said.

"Well, no, I suppose you wouldn't, but you do _remember_ what it felt like, don’t you?"

"Sure."  He leaned back and, recognizing Eames's prompt as the test it was, he continued.  "The second principle of shared dreaming is that the subject's mind will always attempt to assign familiarity and meaning to whatever you give it, even a face it's never seen before.  It's the only way that he or she can ever accept an artificial dream as real."

Eames nodded, expecting such a clinical answer.  "And the first principle?" he asked.

Arthur clearly did not like being led by the nose, but he folded his arms and obliged.  "That the subject's mind will always fill a blank space.  Does this have anything to do with--"

"When you build a dream, do you leave blank space?"

He sighed sharply through his nose.  "It's impossible not to," he said.  "But I am very thorough."

Eames smiled to himself.  He could already imagine the kinds of dreams Arthur built: pristine halls and cold marble and tasteful, symbolic artwork.  "I'm sure you are.  But leaving space is what makes the subject more secure in their environment.  It allows them to project the little details that make the dream familiar."

"Yes, but even then you have to be careful," Arthur reasoned.  "Because you can't predict how the subject is going to populate the space.  Leave too much up to them and it could get in the way of the job."

"It's a delicate balance, to be sure," Eames agreed.  "So what happens when you leave _only_ blank space?"

"Then...the subject supplies everything.  In essence, the subject becomes the dreamer."  Arthur shook his head.  "Which is even more dangerous and unpredictable."

"Exactly.  Now."  Eames leaned his elbows against the table.  "Apply all that to the first thing I said."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and Eames could almost see the gears churning behind his forehead.  He caught on faster than most.  "You're going to leave yourself blank?" he asked incredulously.

"Forging is already a tricky art," Eames said, appreciating the impressed look Arthur was suddenly fixing him with.  "We skate the balance every time, giving the subject a framework they can project on.  It's all about letting go of that control--" he shot Arthur a wry smile "--and letting your imagination work for the subject.  But because I'm trying to _learn_ a man's identity instead of recreate it this time, I'm not going to use any framework.  I'm just going to...approach, and see what happens."

"So in short, you become a projection," Arthur supposed.  He leaned back, struggling between interest and disapproval.  "It sounds dangerous."

"Oh, it's not so bad," Eames lied easily.  "But it means that once we're down there, I'll be completely open to suggestion from the subject.  Every dream tells a story, you know, and I'll be playing whatever part she gives me.  You may not be able to trust me."

Arthur made a quiet sound of displeasure at the back of his throat.  "I'm not sure I trust you _now_."

He smirked.  "Fair enough."

A shadow fell over their table, and both glanced up at their last team member, Dominic Cobb.  He was dressed in a nice suit and was holding a briefcase.  "I just got the call," he said.  "They're ready."

"The subject's name is Mary Marshall," Cobb explained the job again as they exited the elevator on the eighth floor.  "Wife of our client, Erick Marshall.  Mr. Marshall is afraid that she's cheating on him, and he wants to know with whom."

"Would have been cheaper to call a P.I. with a camera, hm?" Eames quipped.

"Except that's not all he's after.  Mrs. Marshall has slowly been emptying her bank account, and he wants to know where it's going."  Cobb stopped at the right door and knocked loudly.  "He's also convinced that she's plotting to kill him."

"He's hoping that if he confronts her with the plans, they can work out a divorce rather than involve the police," Arthur added.

Eames's brow lifted.  "How romantic."

"How is _that_ romantic?"

The door opened, revealing a sweat-faced blond man in his late thirties.  "Come in," he said quickly.  "Come in--she's asleep."

They moved swiftly inside and to the bed, where the subject was passed out cold on top of the sheets.  She was dressed in a black cocktail dress that stood out against her smooth, pale skin, and her blonde hair fanned around her like a halo.  Eames smiled distantly at her full, red lips.  "I can see why he wasn't enough for you," he said under his breath.

"You all remember the layout, correct?" Cobb continued as he set up the PASIV.  "Eames goes in first.  Arthur and I will join the wait staff as support.  After dinner is served Arthur will approach to tell Eames he has a phone call."

Eames rolled up his sleeve and pulled a chair over.  "Just make sure there's a mirror wall near the phone, if you please."

"What for?" asked Arthur, taping the PASIV needle to his forearm.

"Because I'm vain."

"You'll be careful, won't you?" Erick asked nervously as he watched them prepare.  "This doesn't have...side effects, right?"

Cobb nestled a pair of earphones on his head and handed Erick the controller.  "When the timer gets down to twenty seconds, press play," he instructed.  "Don't worry about a thing, Mr. Marshall.  We'll be back in no time."  He looked to Eames.  "Are you ready?"

Eames settled in his chair and took a deep breath, in and out.  None of them would have noticed the wary twitch of his lip.  "When you are, Boss."

Cobb motioned to Erick, who grimaced and pressed the plunger.

The PASIV engaged with a soft hiss.  Eames closed his eyes and let his mind flow free, feeling welcoming darkness swell up around him, followed by the rise of Cobb's dream.  He let it strip him down, removing every identifying feature, leaving only a blank slate of a man behind.

He was standing outside a classy downtown restaurant, the soft light a dull gleam through the tinted windows, a suited doorman out front.  It took a great deal of concentration to will himself inside, with purpose and nothing else.  As a mere whisper of a presence, with no identity or form, he moved towards his lover. 

Mary's subconscious latched onto him as soon as he was through the door.  The force of her mind projecting on him was fierce, pulling and shaping with greater eagerness than he was accustomed to.  He took a step and she pressed a body of her choosing onto his bare skeleton: a lean, toned physique, a wide, full mouth, and dark, curly hair.  He took another and her story unfolded inside him, one of secret meetings, fresh hotel sheets, bare, moistened skin and raking fingernails.  He had a scar on his shoulder that she enjoyed nibbling.  He had deep brown eyes she had confessed all her secrets to.

By the time Eames reached Mary at her table, he was no longer Eames, had no idea that a man named Eames even existed.  He only knew who he was _supposed_ to be.

Mary leaned back in her chair.  She was wearing a low-cut, dark green dress, fingering the gold necklace that dipped toward her cleavage.  She arched a slender eyebrow.  "You're late, Sam."  She lifted her hand, palm down.

Eames rounded the table and kissed it.  "My apologies.  I hope you weren't waiting long."

She shrugged.  "I just got here," she said, motioning for him to sit down.

He did so, and almost immediately their waiter appeared, filling his glass with a bottle of wine already on the table.  There was something familiar about the slick, suited man but Eames couldn't place him.  "I see you took the liberty of ordering," Eames said, taking in a slow breath of the alcohol.  It had a strong, bitter aroma that clung to his tongue.

Mary nudged her glass forward and smiled when he filled it.  "You always order the fillet mignon.  Why would tonight be any different?"

Her eyes bore into him, and the story unfolded a little further, giving him a glimpse of what he was meant to say.  "Tonight _is_ different," he told her, his voice a low murmur.  "Tonight is the last time we have to hide."

She stared back at him, not understanding at first, and then comprehension slithered across her smiling lips.  "Then, tomorrow, at the races..."

"I've arranged for Michael to invite Erick to his private booth," Eames confirmed, excited.  "You and I won't have to be anywhere near."

"And you said he can be trusted?" Mary asked urgently.  "This friend Michael of yours."

"For the price I've offered, yes."  Eames lifted his glass.  "To your freedom, Mary."

She clinked her glass to his.  "To freedom," she echoed, savoring the word.  By the time she took a sip she was already looking away.

She changed the subject then, and they chatted idly about lighter topics: the places they had been together, the places they would travel to.  Even embedded as deeply in his charade as Eames was he could see her gaze wander when he spoke, as if she were already far away, enjoying the freedom his misdeeds were about to grant her.  She twirled her hair around her finger and tapped her foot and was anxious for the evening to end.

A few minutes after dinner had been served, when Eames was frowning at his fillet, the slick waiter returned to inform him that he had a phone call.  As soon as Eames was away from the table Mary pulled out her cell phone and did not look the least bit put out by his leaving.

Eames followed the waiter to the far end of the restaurant behind a partition, and as he reached for the phone he glanced left and noticed a polished mirror taking up most of one wall.  He looked at himself for a long moment, feeling a prickle of ill ease at his own appearance.  Abandoning the phone he moved closer, and pressed his hand to the glass.

The reflection wasn't him.  He rubbed his eyes, looked again, and suddenly he remembered.

"Eames."  Arthur touched his shoulder.  "You all right?"

Eames shook himself, his stern jaw and curly hair falling away to reveal a much more familiar person.  "Ahh, that's better."

Cobb joined them, also dressed in a waiter's uniform.  "What did you learn?"

"My name is Sam Berrington," Eames reported.  "Mary and I have been having relations for some time, it seems.  And tomorrow my friend Michael is going to get Erick Marshall liquored up and urge him off the balcony of his private track suite."  He shrugged.  "The client was right."

"And the money?" Cobb asked.

"Don't know, and honestly I'm not sure I can get it from her here."  Eames glanced back to the table and was not surprised to see Mary watching a handsome gentleman at another table.  "Sam is just her patsy--she's losing interest.  I'm betting as soon as I get back to the table she'll say she has to go.  Might even have another man lined up after this."

Arthur snorted.  "Still think this is romantic?" he said sarcastically.

"Well, look at it this way."  Eames faced him seriously.  "Mr. Marshall knows what she is, and he's still trying to protect her.  Have you ever loved someone enough to do that?"

Arthur leaned back uncomfortably.  "I've never been _stupid_ enough to do that."

"Enough--what we need to do is figure out where she's going with her money," Cobb interrupted.  "If Eames is right and we can't rely on Sam now, we'll have to figure out another way to get the information."

"Like how?" asked Arthur.  "Follow her home and hack into her account the old fashioned way?"

"If she does have another cock in the pen that's one more angry projection to deal with," Eames warned.  Arthur gave him a look but he pretended not to notice.  "And we can't assume she'll take us anywhere useful anyway.  If I get her outside we could kidnap her, rough her up a bit."

Arthur shook his head.  "The client doesn't want that.  You're the one that just said--"

"I said it was romantic, I didn't say I cared," Eames retorted.

"From what we know of her that won't work anyway.  She's trained in self-defense and she doesn't bow to threats."

"Was there anything in her profile that we can use?" said Cobb.  "We don't have much time."

Arthur rubbed his mouth as he thought.  "According to Mr. Marshall she's extremely manipulative and has a horrible temper.  She likes spontaneity.  She also gets jealous easily and is very possessive."

"Ah, that's something I can work with," said Eames with a smirk.  "Maybe I can still get some use out of old Sammy yet."

"You have ten minutes," Cobb told him.  "If that doesn't work we'll just have to try stealing her phone and hope there's something in it we can use."  He headed back into the dining room.

Arthur looked at Eames.  "What are you going to do?"

"I haven't quite figured it out yet," he admitted.

"We have maybe half an hour left," Arthur insisted irritably, crowding him.  "We don't have time to waste guessing at a plan that might--"

Eames put a hand on his chest and pushed him back.  "And you're not helping," he snapped.  "I'll think of something, trust me."  He turned toward the mirror and took a deep breath, letting his dream persona smooth over him once more.  "I'll just have to improvise."

Arthur shook his head.  "But _how_?"

"By trusting my instincts.  You might want to try that yourself, Arthur."  Eames straightened his tie and ran his hands through his curls.  "Let go a little.  You might actually learn something."

Eames turned and strode away.  Mary's subconscious was still pulling at him, trying to reclaim him as hers, and he allowed it--mostly.  He saved one corner of self-awareness for himself, and gripped it tightly as he retook his seat.  "Sorry about that, love.  How is your bass?"

"It's fine," she said, disinterested.  "Are we getting dessert?  To tell you the truth I'm on a diet."

Eames frowned as he took another bite of his steak.  "You don't need to be," he replied.  Though he enjoyed a brief vindication, seeing that she was dismissing him just as he'd expected, Sam's bitter disappointment was heavy in his gut.  He almost couldn't distinguish it from his own feelings.  "But if you want to skip dessert, that's all right."  He struggled to maintain his identity and form a plan of attack.  "I have somewhere to be after this."

Mary straightened.  "Where?"

"I'm meeting someone."

Her eyes narrowed on him dangerously.  "Who?"

Eames took another bite of his dinner and gulped it down, fighting hard against the press of her projection.  "A friend," he said, too slowly, too vaguely.

Eames looked to her again, and abruptly the pressure on him slid away.  The story of the dream was changing: he was no longer Sam the devoted lover, he was Sam with the wandering eye, and the implication he was suggesting to her was becoming the truth.  And she ate it up.

"I thought we were going to the hotel after this," Mary said, fidgeting in her chair.  "I made reservations."

"Don't you want to be with your husband?  This is your last night together."

"No."  Mary fussed with her hair, playing her part as the righteous victim almost as well as he was playing his.  "No, Sam, I want to be with you."

Arthur approached the table with a pitcher of water and refilled their glasses.  "Can I bring you a dessert menu when you're finished?" he asked, watching Eames closely.

Eames wanted to tell him that his ten minutes weren't up, but deferred to Sam, and replied, "No thank you.  We'll be leaving as soon as the check is settled."

Mary glanced between the two of them.  Arthur was being too obvious about his attention and she could see it.  Her face showed suspicion and something in the dream twisted.  "Actually, I would like a dessert menu," she said tersely.

Arthur nodded, intensely thoughtful.  When he looked to Eames again, questioning, Mary clenched her fists against the table and the dream shifted again.  Eames could feel it, but was not sure of the direction until Arthur seemed to come to a conclusion.

He slid his hand to Eames's shoulder.  "Very well, Miss," he said.  And he squeezed.

If it had been any other time, Eames might have congratulated him.  It was just obvious enough, perfectly placed in their already strained conversation, and he walked away cleanly.  He'd executed a beautiful improvisation that was sure to excite the curiosity and jealousy of their possessive subject.  And it worked so damn well that Eames wanted to kill him.

"Do you know him?" Mary asked coldly.

The dream impressed on him, and though he tried not to let it sweep him up, he had left too many blank spaces in himself and he hadn't anticipated needing defense.  Her mind supplied the answer for him.  "Yes," Eames said with false innocence.  "I come here a lot."

"Is he the one you're meeting after we're _finished_ here?" She put venom in the word.

The answer was yes.  "Of course not," Eames lied, sweat on his palms as he reached for his wine.  "What are you talking about?  Don't be paranoid."

Mary leaned forward, her shoulders hunched and pointed like a prowling lioness.  "Don't lie to me, Sam."

"What do you want me to say?" Eames said, frustrated and edging towards panic.  "I know him, all right?  He's a good man."  He glanced away and spotted Arthur at the front of the restaurant, speaking close to Cobb's ear.  He knew who they were and what they were likely saying but only Sam's sudden spark of jealousy roused in his chest, drawing him deeper into the feedback loop Mary's subconscious was creating around him.  She was clawing him into her fantasy.

"Why are you looking at him?" Mary demanded.  "Is it because you like him more than me?"

The answer was yes.  "Don't be ridiculous."

"Then why aren't you coming home with me?"  Mary's beautiful red lips twisted in a sneer.  She was furious and relishing it.  "Are you going to stay behind so you can fuck that waiter?"

The answer was yes.  Eames squeezed his eyes shut but she was all over him.  "Mary, please--"

She slammed her fist down on the table, rattling their silverware and knocking their wine bottle to the floor.  "Are you fucking the goddamn waiter!?" she shrieked.

The answer was so yes that Eames felt a swarm descend on him.  Inside him unfolded a new History of Sam, wherein the secrets and sheets and skin and fingernails weren't Mary's; they belonged to a handsome, slick waiter named Arthur.  His imagination was surprisingly eager to let her fill in the spaces, providing all manner of vivid memories.  He remembered how they had met at the restaurant, how they had fucked in the last stall of the restroom, how he was planning to fuck him at the very hotel that Mary had reservations at.  The secret romance of Sam and Arthur was heated and inexplicable and infuriating, and it became all that he was.

"Yes!" Eames shouted back.  "Yes, all right?  I am _fucking_ the waiter!"

Everyone turned to stare.  Arthur, now only a few steps from the table, stopped in mid stride.  Mary was seething but when Eames watched closely enough he saw a sliver of a grin hiding in the corner of her mouth, and before he lost himself completely he came to a revelation.

Mary knew she was dreaming.

She was toying with him.  But even knowing that, it was too late--she had already made him hers.  He had no idea who he really was.

Arthur started forward again, wide-eyed and angry, and Eames mistook the source of his temper.  He held up his hand.  "It's all right," he said to him, and then to Mary, "There.  Are you satisfied?"

Mary quaked, clutching at her little black purse.  "Tell me the truth," she said, her eyes glistening.  "Do you _love_ him?"

The answer was still yes.  The emotion thundered into him as if driven by mallets, drawing to life a hundred intimate moments, quiet sighs and fleeting touches.  Eames looked to Arthur and cringed at his expression of confusion.  He hadn't wanted to tell Arthur this way, let alone Mary, but they were both staring at him awaiting an answer.  It was too true not to say.  "Yes."

Mary's lip trembled.  She was more beautiful than ever then, glaring at Eames through her fake lashes with her heart temporarily broken, and he remembered suddenly why he had stayed with her for so long.  It really wasn't hard at all, loving two people at once.  He was about to tell her so when she shoved her hand into her purse and pulled out a small, six shot revolver.

Arthur saw it coming, but he couldn't reel back fast enough; Mary swung the weapon and fired into his stomach, and again into his collar as he dropped to the floor.  He landed on his back with a wet, agonized scream.

Eames was already in motion by then.  Before Mary could fire again he grabbed her by the wrist and wrenched the gun out of her grasp.  She shrieked and fought, clawing at him with her free hand.  "You used me!" she screamed, and when he managed to snag her other hand she jabbed at him with her high heels.  "You never loved me!"

Her heel raked a gash down the inside of Eames's leg, and with a curse he was startled into letting go.  She shoved him back and snatched a knife off the table.  "You can't do this to me!  Not even in my own dream!"

Cobb grabbed her from behind.  The restaurant was in uproar and several of the patrons joined him, drawing her back as she hollered and flailed.  "Don't hurt her!" Eames shouted, but then his attention was drawn by a pained groan, and he rounded the table once more.

Men and women were crowding around, and Eames urged them back so he could kneel at Arthur's side.  "Oh God," he hissed, his hands trembling above the ragged wounds in Arthur's chest and stomach.  "Oh _shit_."  He snatched the cloth napkins off their table and wound them tight, pressing them down to staunch the flow of blood.

Arthur writhed, and choked on another cry of pain.  His face was twisted and it made Eames sick to his stomach.  "Shh, shh," Eames soothed, touching his face.  "You're all right--you'll be fine."  He turned on the people hovering nearby.  "Someone call an ambulance!"

A man let out a scream, and when Eames looked up he saw Mary sinking her teeth into the maître d's neck.  The patrons that had been holding her retreated in shock, leaving her to flee the scene with a gleeful laugh.  "This is the best dream I've had in a weeks!" she cheered as she ran from the restaurant.

"Mary--"  Eames cursed under his breath and turned back to Arthur.  "She's crazy," he said with a panicked smile.  He drew Arthur's hands to his injuries, urging him to put pressure on them.  "God she's crazy, but I had no idea she'd..."  His eyes burned and his throat tightened.  "I'm so sorry, Arthur."

Arthur stared up at him blearily.  He was already pale and when he coughed his lips stained red.  It took a long moment of struggle for him to put strength to his voice.  "Kill me."

Eames went cold.  "What...?"

"Jesus," Cobb grunted, joining them.  His cheeks bore welts drawn by French manicures.  "I got her phone but I need Arthur's help to get into it."   His brow furrowed as he squeezed Arthur's shoulder.  "Think you can come right back?" he asked.

Arthur nodded weakly.  "Do it."

Eames glanced between them, baffled.  "What are you talking about?"

Cobb reached into his jacket and pulled out a Beretta.  "Be quick."  He pressed the gun to Arthur's forehead.

Before he could curl his finger around the trigger Eames surged forward, shoving the muzzle away from his injured lover.  "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm waking him up," Cobb said, startled.  "What are _you_ doing?"

He tried to push the gun back, but Eames resisted, and with a growl he shoved his weight into Cobb's shoulder and sent him sprawling.  "Stop that--who the fuck do you think you are?"

Cobb pushed up on his knees and glared.  "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Eames leaned protectively over the trembling Arthur, rubbing his forehead as if to erase the invisible imprint of the gun muzzle.  The eyes on him were pleading but he was still trapped inside Sam, and he was watching his lover die.  "He's fine--an ambulance is coming," he said desperately.  He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the blood from around his mouth.  "You're going to be all right."

" _Eames._ "  Cobb pushed to his feet and leveled the gun at him again.  "We don't have time for this--just back off so I can shoot him."

Eames's gazed darted, and landed on Mary's dropped revolver.  He snatched it up and turned it on Cobb as he edged between the two of them.  " _You_ back off--back the _fuck_ off, God damn it!  I won't let you hurt him!"

Everyone in the restaurant stared, cowering behind tables and some backing toward the exits.  Cobb looked around at them as if waiting for something to happen.  "Calm down," he said to Eames, holding up his hand.  "Just calm down, Eames.  Where's your Totem?"

Sweat burned his eyes and made his thumb slip against the hammer of the gun.  "My what?"

"Your Totem," Cobb repeated.  "I told you last time you should have one, remember?  Where is it?"

Eames stared.  The words turned to mud in his brain and made no sense.  "Stop it," he pleaded, his arm shaking with the strain of keeping his gun trained.  "Leave him alone."

Cobb growled in frustration as he eyed the patrons again.  "This isn't real!" he blurted out, and a dozen faces turned sharply toward him.  "This is all a dream--he's not really dying.  Just check your Totem, you'll see!"

"You...you're crazy."  His chest heaved, trying to draw in even breaths, but his pulse was too fast, and his entire body was tense with agony.  "Please, stop."  When Arthur groaned and pulled at his arm he grimaced, but refused to lower his weapon.  "Help me--I have to save him."

"Jesus _Christ_!" Cobb shouted.  "Look at what you're putting him through!"

"You're the one who's trying to--"

" _Sam!_ "

Eames turned, and was met with Arthur's begging eyes.  "It's all right," Arthur gasped, twisting their bloodied fingers together.  "Sam please...put the gun down."

"Arthur..."  Eames shuddered, and with a sob he released the gun to grip Arthur's hand in both of his.  "I'm sorry," he whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks as he accepted in misery that he was losing him.  "God, I'm so--"

Cobb fired, and Eames felt a sharp pain in his neck.  The bullet ripped through his throat, shredding tissue, and when he tried to gasp there was only a horrible, sticky gurgle.  Clutching the wound Eames fell, half slumping over Arthur.  He twitched and shook as the blood pumped out of him, and somehow felt that Mary was very close to them then, reveling in their tragedy.

"Jesus," Cobb said again as he stood over them.  He wiped his forehead and turned the gun on Arthur.  "Be quick."

Arthur closed his eyes and reached out, his fingertips feathering over Eames's black hair.  He took one more breath and then Cobb fired.

Eames jerked with the shot, reaching, but it was too late; Arthur's head lolled to the side, displaying the grisly dark entrance wound.  He tried to cry out but only blood welled forth, and all he could do was cling to the still-warm corpse as Cobb aimed at him.

"This is why I told you to get a goddamned Totem," he said, and then he pulled the trigger.

Eames's eyes leapt open, but when he tried to take in a breath his throat seized and he could draw no air.  His head rolled back and forth, staring dumbly at the striped wallpaper and cedar furniture.  He clawed at his neck and chest, trying to encourage them into function, but his eyes were watering and his hands were shaking and he couldn't think past the sensation of loss crushing down on him.

Strong hands touched him. Something was ripped from his forearm and suddenly his mind cleared. He remembered the hotel, the job, the sweat-faced man, and Mary, still sprawled on the bed, asleep. He remembered who he was.

"Eames," a voice said urgently, steadying him in his chair. "Calm down; you're awake. Are you--"

Eames jerked his head up.  He caught only a flash of Arthur's tight face but it was enough to reawaken all the memories of the dream, and at last he was able to take in a full, gasping breath.  His lungs burned from the rush of air.  Without thinking he shoved Arthur off him and clamored to his feet in a swift retreat.

"Eames--"

Eames stormed into the bathroom.  He pressed his trembling hands to the mirror, concentrating on each deep breath as he stared down his reflection.  His hair was not black, his eyes were not brown.  He was pale and red-eyed and a wreck, but it was _Eames_ staring back at him.

"Fuck."  Everything still felt fuzzy at the edges, and Eames turned on the cold water.  As he splashed it over his face the bathroom grew a little sharper, his identity a little more certain.  He rubbed his eyes and when his throat tried to choke itself again he leaned on the counter and waited for it to pass.  "Fuck," he hissed, his forehead cooling against the imitation marble.  " _Fuck!_ "

Someone was standing in the doorway.  He knew it was Arthur and shame bubbled in his stomach so strongly it made him nauseous.  When he tried to remember how it had all happened only disgust for his lack of control came through, and he remained very still, hoping the man would just go away.

"Are you all right?"

He sounded so uncertain.  He was also very still but Eames could feel the strain in his voice; he was likely suffering the same residual trauma from his violent dream death.  But there was something beneath that made Eames's skin crawl--sympathy that some part of him was still eager to accept.  He sounded just like a troubled lover who didn't know how to comfort his partner.

Eames shook his head.  He was imagining things and he wanted to vomit.  "I'm fine," he croaked, his elbows weak but strong enough to force him upright.  "Go back and help Cobb."

"Are you sure you--"

"Go help Cobb," Eames snapped.  He cupped his hands under the still running water and splashed himself again, not caring that it spilled down the front of his shirt.  "I'm fine."

Footsteps announced his retreat.  Eames listened to him sit back down in the bedroom, explaining to the client that everything was all right and they would be finished soon.  Only once it was quiet again did Eames reach for a towel.

He was pretty sure he'd never humiliated himself so thoroughly in his life.

When he left the bathroom Erick glanced up sharply.  He was holding the music player in both hands as if it were a bomb about to go off.  "Are you--"

"Your wife is fucking Sam Berrington," Eames interrupted, and felt only a dull discomfort when he watched Erick's face fall.  "Maybe others.  They're plotting with some man named Michael to kill you at the race tracks.  Now I'd like my share if you don't mind."

Erick stumbled over a response.  "I...God, Sam?"  He rubbed his watery eyes.  "I should have..."

"My share," Eames repeated sternly.

"What...oh."  Erick composed himself with some effort.  "Right.  Just a moment--I'm supposed to play this--"

Eames looked to Cobb and grimaced.  He made a point not to look at Arthur.  "Right now!"

"Okay, okay!"  Erick squinted at the counter and just as it reached twenty seconds, he pressed play.  "It's right over here." 

Erick took far too long in setting the player down carefully and moving across the room. "What about the third thing I asked for?" he said as he pawed through his duffle bag. "Mary's secret account...?"

"They're still working on it."

Erick stopped and eyed him with suspicion.  "Then maybe I shouldn't give you this until Mr. Cobb says--"

"I did my part," Eames insisted, stepping in close.  "I want my money."

"Well how do I know that?  Why did you wake up early?"  He wiped sweat from his forehead.  "What happened in there?"

Eames's already worn patience snapped.  He shoved Erick back and reached into the duffle, pulling out the men's toiletry bag that Erick had been fingering.  He checked inside and, finding rolls of cash, tucked it under his arm.  "Thank you, Mr. Marshall," he said coldly on his way to the door.

The PASIV hissed, and just as Eames was passing Cobb's chair a hand latched onto him.  He jumped and couldn't help but look.

Cobb stared up at him.  "What the hell happened?"

Arthur awoke with a quiet gasp behind them, but he refused to turn.  "Did you get the information?" Eames asked.

"Yes, barely."

"Then nothing happened."  Eames jerked his arm free and forced a dry smile.  "You know how to find me for the next one," he said and headed for the door.

Cobb sputtered.  "Hold on--I want to talk about this--"

"It's all right," Arthur said.  "Let him go."

Eames cringed as he twisted the door open and all but fled.

He went to his room.  He showered, and changed, and counted his money, but he couldn't shake the unsettling imagery from his mind.  Half an hour after the successful extraction he was back in the bar, lined up on a stool and determined to drink himself into a stupor.

He was doing a fairly good job of it when someone stepped up behind him.  "Eames."

Eames sighed heavily against his glass.  "You're really the last person I want to talk to right now," he grumbled.

Arthur took the stool next to him.  "You should be glad it's me and not Dom," he said.  "I had a hell of a time convincing him not to come looking for you."

Eames made a face, admitting that Cobb might have been worse after all.  He kept his eyes trained on the bar.  "So what do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious?"  Arthur leaned closer.  "I want to know what happened in there."

Arthur's voice, low and close to his ear, sent conflicting emotions undulating in Eames's stomach.  The dream was long past but Sam remained in his system, reminding him of those brief but vibrant minutes when he was in love with his handsome waiter.  Though some part of him relished the sensation of fluttering excitement he knew it wasn't real, and it frightened him.

He took another long gulp of his drink.  "I don't know what to tell you," he admitted gruffly.  "Try again tomorrow."

Arthur sighed.  "You did get me killed and almost ruined the job," he said.  "I think you owe me an explanation."

"Didn't I say earlier not to trust me?  Now you know why."

"So you really were just like one of her projections."  Arthur snorted quietly.  "It might not have been a problem if you had a Totem like Dom told you."

Eames scowled, and tapped his glass on the bar to get the bartender's attention.  "It wouldn't have helped," he muttered.

"But the Totems--"

"It doesn't work for me," Eames snapped.  When the bartender came closer, eyebrows raised, Eames motioned for a refill and was reluctantly granted it.  "Bloody Cobb and his bloody Totems.  When I'm that far gone I don't remember what a Totem _is_ let alone how it works."  He took another long drink.  "Bloody stupid idea."

Arthur went quiet, and Eames made the mistake of looking at him.  It was the first time he'd really seen him since the dream, and the image of him seated so casually at the bar triggered an unexpectedly sharp flash of relief.  Arthur's brow was thoughtfully creased, and his vest annoyingly tidy, but he was _alive_.  Eames's breath hitched and he could only stare.

Arthur started to speak, frowned, and then tried again.  "Does this always happen with forging?"

"No."  Shame seared his elation away.  "No, not hardly."  Hoping that explaining would help dissipate the effects--or at least get Arthur off his back--he took one more drink for courage and turned toward him.  "Mary was lucid.  Either it's something she can do naturally or she's used a PASIV before, but when I suggested to her that Sam was cheating, she decided to run with it.  Maybe I tapped into some subconscious fear she had of him leaving her; I don't know."

He ran his hand through his hair.  "It's like I told you before--too much blank space.  If I'd been more careful I could have kept control but I didn't expect her projecting to be so damn specific.  And so..."  His eyes flickered over Arthur and he turned away again before any more pesky feelings could trouble him.  "So strong.  You can go ahead and commence with the I-told-you-sos if you like."

Arthur sat up taller.  "It was my fault."

Eames turned his glass around in his fingers and didn't look up.  "It wasn't your fault."

"Because I made myself her target," Arthur went on.  "I gave her too much to work with, and you..."

He finally caught on.  Eames winced as he let out a sharp breath of incredulous amusement.  "You really did believe we were having an affair in there, didn't you?"

Eames swallowed hard.  "It's not funny," he mumbled.

"You even..."  Arthur tapped his fingers against the bar.  "Do you _still_...?"

"Do I _what_?"

Arthur shifted on his stool and rubbed his mouth, like a schoolboy with a secret.  "Are you still in love with me?"

Eames sank into his shoulders, sick with humiliation and wishing he could just drop dead.  "It'll wear off in an hour or so."

Arthur's eyes widened, intrigued.  Again he started to ask then stopped himself, and the humor gradually drained from his face.  "Oh."  His fascination gave way to embarrassment as it finally dawned on him how serious Eames was.  "Oh, um...I see.  Then maybe I should go."

Eames peeked at him.  Arthur's cheeks were just barely colored, his gaze downcast and awkward.  It felt like they were breaking up and he hated it--and then hated himself for hating it.  "Fuck," he grumbled, and with a shake of his head he pushed his half full glass to him.  "Have a drink."

Arthur eyed it hesitantly, but once he accepted he tossed it back like a champ.  As soon as the drink was down his face screwed up and he coughed sharply.  "God, what are you drinking?"

"Good, isn't it?" Eames chuckled.  He felt better already.  "Let's get you one of your own."  He waved the bartender over again.

"Mngh, no."  Arthur pushed the glass back, but he did order himself a beer.  He nursed it well, unsure how to proceed with the conversation.  It would have been easier for both of them if he had simply walked away and left Eames to his original plan, but there was something charming about his discomfort.  Eames couldn't bring himself to tell him to leave.

"So what are you going to tell Cobb?" he asked.

"I don't know.  What do you _want_ me to tell him?"

Eames smiled in self-deprecation.  "I guess it doesn't matter, since I already made a fool of myself in front of him.  You can tell him I fell in love with you before we went under, if you want."

Arthur sputtered against his beer.  "Did you now?"

"Ohh, yes," Eames drawled.  "You're irresistible.  I never stood a chance, let alone poor Sam."

He shook his head.  "It must be my adorable dimples."

Eames raised an eyebrow, and when Arthur cracked a smile he couldn't help but laugh.  "Must be," he conceded, and then Arthur was chuckling with him.  The sound of his voice warmed Eames's chest, making him question if it mattered where the feeling came from.

"Cobb will want you back for the next one," Arthur assured.  "Whatever happened, we got what we needed, and you're still the only forger I've ever met who can forge blind.  That counts for a lot."

"I know he will."  Eames smirked.  "I've heard he's had a few plans blow up in his face, too."  He looked to Arthur for confirmation and got another chuckle out of him.

"I was there for all of them," he said.

Half an hour later they left the bar together.  By then Eames was comfortably drunk, and no longer felt any shame in depending on Arthur's shoulder.  "I can at least make sure you get back to your room," Arthur said as they headed across the lobby.

"I'm not sloshed," Eames grunted.  "I'm still coordinated enough to press a button and insert a cardkey."

Still some ways away, the elevator doors slid open and a too familiar blonde in a black dress stomped out.  Eames's heart soared into his ears as Mary's eyes met his.  She had been crying but her makeup was freshly applied.  She was damaged but striking, and she was holding her little black purse under her arm.

"Oh hell," Eames breathed.

"Just keep walking," Arthur hissed close to his ear.

Mary gave him a strange look, but it wasn't until she noticed Arthur that she showed recognition.  Just as they passed each other she stopped dead, and turned to stare at their backs.  A moment later Eames heard the clack of her heels as she followed them.

"Excuse me," she called.

"Keep walking," Arthur said again, and Eames could feel him growing tense.

Mary sped up.  "Hey--"

Her fingernails scraped the back of Eames's elbow, and he panicked.  He grabbed Arthur's arm and ran, startling tourists out of their way in his flight toward the elevator.

"Hey!" Mary shouted, and like something out of a horror movie she gave chase.

Eames raced across the lobby, his hand still tight on Arthur's arm, and all but leapt on the elevator button.  He was breathing hard, embarrassed by his irrational fear until he saw Mary reflected in the doors--still gripping her purse.  Her eyes were wide and he was convinced that at any moment she would draw a gun and shoot them both dead.

A quiet ding echoed behind them, and Eames yanked Arthur through the opening doors and into the elevator.  He could hear Arthur protesting but his only thought was to protect him; he shoved him into the corner, shielding him with his body as he smashed repeatedly at his floor and then the door close button.

"Wait a minute!" Marry continued to holler, but by the time she had reached them the elevator was almost closed and all she could do was pound on the doors.  "You son of a bitch am I still dreaming--"

The doors closed, and soft music replaced Mary's angry accusations.  Eames remained still until they started to ascend, and even then he couldn't catch his breath right away.  "Bloody hell," he muttered.

Arthur was still pressed into the corner.  He raised his eyebrows, trying to appear unimpressed with the heroics, but Eames saw him discreetly rub his stomach.  "Maybe not the best idea, staying in the same hotel with the Mark," he said.

"I've had worse ideas," Eames replied. 

One such idea pulsed at the back of his mind when he looked at Arthur.  They were both breathing heavily, and despite the close quarters Arthur wasn't arguing or urging him back.  In fact he seemed quite comfortable, watching the numbers tick closer to their floor.  He was warm and his knee was pressed against Eames's thigh and a strand of his hair was free, dangling over his ear in an enticing fashion.

Eames reached up, smoothing the strand back into place, and got déjà vu.  Arthur's eyes rolled up as if trying to watch; he remained still, and when Eames was finished he tilted his head slightly.  "Still...?"

Eames slid his hand to Arthur's collar, rubbing his thumb over an invisible entry wound.  "This still sting?"

"A little."

His eyelids drooped, and he stretched his hand, playing his fingertips along the vest seam at Arthur's shoulder.  "A little," he echoed.

Arthur again tried to watch, quiet and curious.  When he met Eames's gaze it was with the same bright intensity as when he had first figured out their predicament.  He shifted between Eames's body and the wall, nudging his knee higher up the inside of Eames's thigh.  It was unexpected, and it drew from Eames a slow shiver and a quiet intake of breath.

The elevator chimed as it reached their floor, and the doors opened, without either taking notice.  "Don't tease me," Eames warned.

Arthur hooked two fingers in Eames's belt loops and pulled.  "I'm not."

Eames knew he should resist, but he didn't.  It felt so damn good being pulled into Arthur's firm body, and even better when hot lips found his.  After spending the last hour trying to rid himself of false memories the rush of satisfaction indulging granted him was overwhelming, and he eagerly took control of the kiss, pressing into Arthur and sucking at his lips.  He missed the thrill of affection first realized and reciprocated, and he drank it up.

Arthur relaxed against the wall, welcoming him, but there was a reservation about him that Eames hadn't expected.  He thought at first that he was imagining it, as he'd anticipated the feisty and flexible waiter from Mary's imagination, but slowly it dawned on him what Arthur was up to.  With a quiet groan he leaned back.

"You're using me," he accused breathlessly.

Arthur made a face.  "No I'm not."

The elevator doors started to close, and Eames hastily stuck his arm between them to coax them open again.  He continued to stare Arthur down, who at last betrayed a look of guilt.  He knew he was right, and a battle took place at the back of his conscience.  "Have you ever been kissed by someone that loved you?" he asked.

"What?"  Arthur scoffed.  "I'm not a kid--I've been in relationships."

The doors tried to close again, and Eames pulled Arthur out of the elevator to avoid another fight with them.  "Not what I asked," he said, and before they could get far he backed Arthur into the nearest wall and kissed him again.  When he closed his eyes fantasy overtook him.  With one hand massaging the back of Arthur's neck and the other clenched against his hip he trapped Arthur with the weight of his body and the urgency of his mouth.  He let himself believe that Arthur was the center of his world, his dirty secret and his hard-won prize, and when he moaned against his trembling lips it was like a prayer of worship.

Arthur shuddered beneath him and almost melted.  He tried at first to stand his ground against the advances, but Eames had all the leverage and was all over him.  There was little he could do but cling to Eames's shirt and relish the attention paid him, which he seemed to do with ample enthusiasm.

"Is this what you wanted?" Eames hissed.  When Arthur's head fell back he kissed his exposed throat, stroking the line of the muscles beneath with his tongue.  "Wanted to see if I was telling the truth?"

"Wait," Arthur gasped.  "We can't do this here--"

Eames slid his hand over the front of Arthur's slacks, palming the growing bulge of his arousal--felt it swell into his touch as Arthur's heavy breath emptied across his temple.  His own groin throbbed in answer and drove him mad.  "I bet you're wondering," he breathed, "if anyone's ever loved you as much as I do right now."

"N-No."  Arthur pushed at his shoulders but the rest of his body was still achingly receptive, arching into the slow stroke of Eames's steady hand.  "That's not what I--"

Eames silenced him with another full kiss.  His pulse was hammering through his body, until his head was stinging and his fingertips tingled.  It almost didn't feel real.  Growling, he pushed Arthur's knees apart and fit their bodies together, feeling out the outline of Arthur's cock with his own.  "How does it feel?" he asked, his voice straining.

"No, wait," Arthur tried again. He tried to get some space between their mouths but Eames's hand was still tight at the back of his neck, unyielding. "We're in the middle of the hallway!"

Eames pretended not to hear him.  "Do you like this?  Want to know how it feels?"  He rolled his hips forward, thrilled and disgusted with the way Arthur churned against him.  "Want to know what it's like to have a stranger inside you?"

"What...?"  Arthur gasped when Eames rocked into him again, but then he resumed his shoving, with greater insistence.  "Eames, stop.  That's not what I--"

"I'll show you," Eames groaned, and he abruptly pulled back.  He staggered on his feet a moment, but as soon as he had his balance he grabbed Arthur by the arm and pulled him down the hall to his room.  "You want to know what happened in there?  I'll show you."

Arthur's brow furrowed, and when Eames stopped to fumble for his card key he pulled his arm free.  "I don't want to do this if you're still not yourself," he said, trying to be stern despite his red ears and tented trousers.  He was even more irresistible for the effort.

"Yes you do."  Eames opened the door and pulled him inside.  "That's the whole point, isn't it?"

"No!"  Arthur again struggled out of his grip, but he still undid his tie as he followed Eames to the bed.  "Maybe it was a mistake.  I shouldn't have led you on."

Eames stepped out of his shoes and socks.  "So you're going to go back to your room?" he asked.  He turned to Arthur and started unbuttoning his vest.  "To wank off and go to bed?"

Arthur sighed, and when Eames got to the last button he pushed his hands away.  He then started unbuttoning Eames's shirt.  "I'm _trying_ to show some modicum of respect here," he said matter-of-factly.  "So that you don't wake up tomorrow and think I took advantage of you."

"But you _are_ taking advantage of me," Eames retorted.  He unbuttoned Arthur's shirt from the bottom, so that when they ran into each other they had to rearrange their hands.  "You knew I wouldn't say no."  He splayed his fingers over Arthur's bare stomach and drew a smooth caress down to the lip of his pants. 

Arthur's muscles twitched beneath his fingertips.  "Eames."

"It's all right."  Eames undid Arthur's fly and stepped into him.  "I kind of want to take advantage of you, too."

Eames pushed Arthur in the chest so that he sat down involuntarily when the backs of his legs struck the mattress.  He lowered to his knees, pulling off Arthur's shoes and socks and then hooking his fingers under the waist of his pants.

When he tugged Arthur made a face, but he obliged, lifting his hips.  Once his pants were off he shrugged out of his shirt and vest and shoved them off the bed.  "If you regret this in the morning," he muttered, "I'm not apologizing."

"Shut up."  Eames groped along the insides of Arthur's thighs, kneading into the muscles with the meat of his palm; Arthur needed no further encouragement to spread his knees, his breath picking up again the closer the hands inched to his groin.  With a quiet murmur Eames leaned down, smearing his open mouth along the underside of Arthur's cloth-bound erection.

Arthur's eyelids fluttered and his breath hissed.  When Eames saw him take in a breath he feared some smart retort was on its way, and he traced with his tongue to Arthur's head for a wet, sucking kiss--it shut him up.  He was tired of talking, tired of thinking about what they were doing.  All he needed was release, to get the last vestiges of the dream out of his system for good.  He told himself that over and over as he dug into his nearby suitcase and motioned for Arthur to back up.

He had two condoms left and a half full tube of lubricant.  Eames held them in his teeth as he took off the rest of his clothes and then stood.  By then Arthur had moved up the bed and was reclining on his elbows.  He glared at Eames, frustrated and embarrassed.  His hard eyes, the too-proud tilt of his jaw, and especially the tense and begrudgingly-inviting stretch of his lean body sent a fresh pulse of arousal up and down Eames's equally taut frame.  He was defiant and intense and sympathetic, and he was trying so hard to hide just how much he wanted what Eames--what Sam--was offering him.

Eames let his items fall.  He crawled onto the bed and up Arthur's body, letting Arthur's terse but secretly-unnerved expression heat the slow burn already in his blood.  His kiss was unhurried and possessive.  Though Arthur was no longer engulfed and overwhelmed he crumbled beneath the slow surge of intimacy, wrapping his arms around Eames's shoulders as they sank to the mattress together.

"Whatever you do," Eames murmured, "don't call me Sam."

Their bodies scraped together, bare flesh and a whisper of fabric between them.  Eames was already fantasy-drunk but was surprised to feel Arthur turning into a talented actor beneath him: his breath was hoarse and he rose into every kiss with real desire.  He didn't have a waiter's bite but he was eager to pretend, and Eames was happy to deliver.

Eames pulled back to retrieve the condoms and lube.  As soon as he'd spread the latex on, Arthur's fingers were around his cock, rubbing warmth into the lotion in long, luxurious strokes of his fist.  Eames hissed, arching into him, but Arthur gave up sooner than he'd wanted and tossed away his underwear as he rolled onto his stomach.

The curve of his spine was beautiful.  Eames nibbled between his shoulder blades as he slicked two fingers with the lubricant and slid them deftly into his waiting partner.  Though Arthur greeted the intrusion with a sharp intake of breath his body adapted quickly; his muscles relaxed, needy beneath the gradually deepening massage of Eames's fingers.

It wasn't long before Arthur shuddered and turned his head to the side.  "That's enough," he breathed, pushing up on his knees.

Eames kissed the back of Arthur's neck and shifted into position behind him.  He felt as if his body were humming in anticipation, and when he eased the head of his cock into a hot embrace of flesh his breath left him.  Arthur was tight but welcoming, and he couldn't help but thrust fully into him.

Arthur moaned, and the clamp of muscle around Eames's cock felt like a reward.  He growled low in his throat, pulled back, and rocked again into Arthur just as deeply.  As good as it felt, what thrilled Eames the most was the sudden realization that this wasn't the Arthur from the dream.  With each steady pump of his hips he became more certain of it; Arthur was more composed than Mary's imagination had given him credit for, moving only as much as was necessary for them to meet.  Rather than surrender to frenzy he was giving himself over to Eames, trusting him to make good on his word.

It wasn't what Eames had expected, and he was so grateful he was half tempted to lose control right then.  But he wanted to be sure, absolutely so.  Without warning he backed away, dragging Arthur by the waist away from the headboard.

Arthur yelped as he lost his grip and fell face first into the pillows.  "Shit--Eames, what are you--"

Eames hooked his arm under Arthur's thigh and pulled, rolling him onto his back--and drawing from him another undignified grunt of surprise.  He didn't wait for Arthur to be situated before sliding into him again, bending his knees up.

"Eames--"  Arthur trailed off in another deep moan as Eames resumed his even pace.  His face was screwed in confusion and irritation but it only made him more Arthur, which in turn encouraged Eames into stronger thrusts.  At last he stretched his arms over his head, finding a handhold in the mattress edge to cling to as Eames moved in and out of him, never speeding up.

Arthur was amazing.  He tried hard to disguise what Eames was doing to him now that they were face to face, but with every stroke he trembled, reveling in the measured passion of a real lover.  Half formed murmurs seeped through his teeth.  The more he tried to hide his pleasure the more Eames was determined to see, and with a growl he pulled back again.

" _Fuck,_ Eames," Arthur groaned, and when Eames turned away he kicked at him.  "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Eames came back with the second condom wrapper ripped open.  "Stay still," he grunted, and he pinned Arthur's hips down so he could fit the latex over him.

Arthur tried to squirm.  "What are you doing?"

Eames crawled over him and pressed their mouths together in a firm kiss.  As fed up as Arthur was he returned it like a man starving.  He pulled at Eames's shoulders and rubbed their thighs, trying to convince him back to his desperate body.  With a low murmur, Eames complied: he straightened up and lowered himself onto Arthur's straining cock.

Arthur gasped sharply.  He clenched his jaw and jerked at the mattress, fighting back an early orgasm.  The strain on his face was intoxicating and before he was prepared Eames lifted up and then took him in again.

"Oh God--wait--"  Arthur dug his heels into the mattress and squeezed his eyes shut.  The muscles along his abdomen were tight and gorgeous as he struggled. 

"I can't," Eames huffed.  Feeling Arthur hard and anxious inside him, so different from anything implanted in his mind, made Eames quake with fervent relief.  When he rode Arthur hard the pleasure was his own, searing through him hot and untainted, and he couldn't stop.  "Come on, Arthur--"

Arthur growled, and his lips pulled back in a snarl as he snapped his hands around Eames's hips.  With a sudden burst of strength he planted his heels and bucked Eames nearly off of him.  Eames saw white, and then Arthur was pumping into him again.  Desperation took over and he shoved his body upwards, gasping and sweating and hissing curses with the effort.  Their pace was frantic; Eames burned as he strained to keep up but his strength was fading and his thighs were giving out, lowering his weight and hampering the motion of Arthur's hips.

It just about drove Arthur insane.  With a groan that was more animal than man he grabbed Eames's knees and pushed, using his full strength to spill the man backwards and off him.  Eames clutched at the blankets as he rolled onto his back--his shoulders were off the edge of the bed, and he had to paw at Arthur with his feet to keep from slipping off entirely.  "Arthur--"

Arthur pounced, hands clamping at Eames's waist as he pounded into him.  When Eames tried to ease him back or shift his position Arthur wouldn't allow him, determined to fuck him senseless with no more interruptions.

"Arthur!" Eames gasped, writhing, but was almost folded in half when Arthur responded by leaning down for a teeth-clashing kiss.  Eames groaned and was swept up in his fervor.  Even as he teetered precariously he kissed Arthur back with all his passion, clinging to his back, all conscious thought seared away.

Arthur came, his voice ragged and halting against Eames's mouth, his hips helplessly spasming.  His last stuttering thrusts pulled Eames apart at the seams, and he curled against Arthur's shoulder as a fiery orgasm wracked his exhausted body.  They were slipping.  He felt weightless and brilliant until he realized that _they_ _were slipping_ and he clawed at the blankets, but it was too late: still moaning through his climax Eames tumbled off Arthur's cock and the bed.

He landed with a thud, and with a startled yelp Arthur fell on top of him.  They panted together, awkwardly lumped but too tired to move.  Eames didn't mind.  As their sweat mingled he enjoyed those last moments of fleeting euphoria, shamelessly stroking Arthur's skin, breathing him in.  It felt perfect and it was his.

Something squirmed in his stomach.  Eames sagged, hating it for spoiling his mood, but it was so absurd that he couldn't help but laugh.

Arthur hummed and stretched his weary limbs.  "What?"

"I feel like shit," Eames said, rolling onto his back, "for cheating on Mary."

Arthur sat up and stared at him, and he looked so dumbfounded that Eames laughed again.  But soon he found the humor in it too, and chuckled around a tired kiss.

When Eames woke up the next morning he was in bed, naked and alone.  The far side of the mattress had long since cooled and only a lingering aroma of hair product on the pillow indicated that it had ever been occupied at all.  Eames groaned, and rubbed his sore hips, and thought cautiously back through the past evening's events.

A quiet tone from his cell phone interrupted him.  He pulled himself to the edge of the bed and dug the device out of his discarded pants.  He had one text message from an unknown number, made up of only one word.

 _Still?_

Eames scoffed, but he smiled as he typed in his response.  "Fuck...you..."  He hit send.

His phone asked him if he wanted to save the number, so he did.


End file.
